Back in Africa, Thomas had not given up. Left for dead in the desert, he had been found by a group of nomadic Tuaregs. Driven by a guilt that burned hotter than the sun, he sold everything he owned to hire a guide—a man who knew the "Shadow Paths" of the slave trade.

"Stop!" Elena screamed, reaching for Thomas's arm. "They’ll kill us both!"

Days bled into nights of jolting transport and thirst. Elena was no longer a lecturer or a bride; she was a commodity, being moved across borders that didn't exist on any map. She was taken through the Tibesti Mountains, across the Red Sea, and finally into the shimmering heat of the Arabian Peninsula.

When the jeep finally skidded to a halt, the silence that followed was more terrifying than the gunfire. Thomas was dragged out and pinned to the ground. A man with eyes like polished flint stepped forward, ignoring the camera equipment and the money Thomas tried to offer. He looked only at Elena.

The next morning, the landscape shifted from the green fringes of the south to the harsh, orange expanse of the desert. Their jeep kicked up a trail of sand that could be seen for miles. They were only hours from the border when the sound of an engine—high-pitched and frantic—echoed behind them.